


Being Human is Harder than it Looks

by Kittenlzlz



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: (I hope), (I'm already spoiled for everything), BAMF Deacon, But he also has no self preservation, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, No one can resist Nick Valentine, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, So its paranoia level slow, Starts before the Sole Survivor awakes, This is Deacon we are talking about, Updates Every Saturday, Writer hasn't actually finished the game yet, probably canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-18 10:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11872950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenlzlz/pseuds/Kittenlzlz
Summary: Deacon has a really awful day, and can't decide whether Diamond City's synth detective made it better or worse.Nick Valentine doesn't know it yet, but he's just gained a stray cat.Alone in the darkness of vault 111 an automated wake up call slowly ticks down.





	1. Supermutants, synths, and saviors

Deacon wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten here. Oh sure he remembered the sequence of events, but that didn't mean they made _sense_. Having coffee with a certain synthetic detective was not an event he’d expected. He resisted the urge to fidget as the yellow eyes roamed over him, the tension and awkwardness of the situation growing.

 

He’d been making his way past the common when a super mutant had spotted him, and boy he needed to mod his pistol; even with its sizzling plasma it had barely made the thing more than angry. He felt pretty justified in running. Its friends pulling out machine guns solidified that, as well as making it a lot more unpleasant. It somehow got worse too, when the sole bullet that landed managed to find a home in his leg. So yeah, it had been a lovely, desperate twenty minutes of trying not to collapse before he’d found a fire escape he could reach (and dashing up those stairs in an attempt to get out of sight before the enforcer came round the corner had done fabulous things to his leg). Searching his depressingly light pack brought up nothing. Really, as the self-proclaimed best agent of the Railroad it was embarrassing he hadn't even brought bandages. With a sigh of disgust he tore a strip off of his ratty white shirt, tying it best he could round the wound. Trying to stand, he grimaced at the wave of pain and dizziness it brought. Blood loss was a great experience. Really. One of his top five favourite things; right up there with concussions and deathclaws. It was an exercise in willpower trying to stay alert as he eased his way down the metal steps, his leg was jarring with every movement. As the adrenaline faded the pain level was rising from “goddamn” to “fuck fuck fuck fuck”. As he neared the bottom of the stairs Deacon was relieved by the lack of angry green. Sliding himself over the drop took more courage than he’d like to admit, and he regretted it immensely when his leg buckled upon impact. His calf was on fucking fire, and he gritted his teeth to keep from screaming, muscles bowstring tense. Walking to Goodneighbour, much less hq, was going to be _hell_.

 

Or you know, worse than hell, he figured out about three blocks later. One moment he was moving - albeit slowly and holding onto the wall to keep dizzy spells away - and the next his cheek was resting against the cool cement. He was pretty sure he should be concerned about his current situation, but it was hard to be when the chill seemed to be sucking his conscious away one slow blink at a time. No, wait, shit. He wasn't gonna die in an alley from a single measly bullet. Sitting himself up was a herculean task, but he managed to get himself unsteadily propped up by the brick rather than facedown. Deacon gingerly bent to examine his leg. Oh look, it had bled through the makeshift wrapping. How fun. He groaned, and tore off another strip of his shirt, tightening this one as much as he dared. It was all he could do. That done, he leant his head back, weary and nauseous. The chipped brick was an almost-painful sensation, but it served to keep him awake. He wasn't in any shape to move, so he may as well give his leg enough time to close up. He pulled his pistol from his hip and rested it in his lap, the thrum of deadly energy within it comforting.

 

A few hours passed as he sat slumped there. His lidded gaze was barely aware of the passing of time, but the slowly fading light was happy to give him the bad news anyway. A rhythmic crunching noise had broken him out of his daze. Footsteps. He gripped his pistol tighter, and tried to silently shuffle further into shadow. They were getting closer, definitely heading his way. Great. His knuckles whitened as a tall figure came into view, walk slow and purposeful. They wore a long coat, and in the half shadows of sunset it was black. Oh _Fuck_ , Deacon thought, heart pounding faster, it must be a courser. He couldn’t run, much less fight. He held himself still as the thing approached, trying to remind himself coursers rarely bothered wasters, that it had no reason to think he was more than a drifter. He should close his eyes, maybe pretend to be asleep, but morbid curiosity kept them open. If the institute was going to be the end of him he’d like the chance to spit in its face.

 

Seconds later, Deacon couldn't help himself. He started laughing. The detective - the diamond city one the Railroad was _still_ confused about - stopped, glancing warily at him. Looking at him now, as he stood in the light, Deacon found it hard to believe he'd thought him a courser. The relief and tension were mixing inside of him and he just couldn't stop laughing, a desperate release of emotion bubbling up out of him. Head bent to his knees as he gasped for breath between bouts of hysteria, he didn't realize the detective had continued forward till boots and a neatly hemmed but worn coat came into view.

“Hey, kid.”

Deacon was unable to reply beyond a hiccuped giggle. God, he hadn't had a fit like this in _years_. He'd forgotten how to deal with them, hoped they'd gone away. Fucking coursers, still scaring the shit out of him years later.

“Kid. Breathe with me okay? Take a deep breath, yes that's it. You're safe, kid.”

Deacon wanted to laugh at that last reassurance from the gravely, drawling voice. He didn't though. He just squeezed his eyes, taking a slow breath. In and out. In and out. Then a hand touched his shoulder and his eyes snapped open. In a swift movement his arm jerked up and sideways to knock the hand away, his other pointing his pistol at the detective's chest. It took effort to keep his breathing steady.

“Thanks, Mr. Synth, but I'm fine now. You can leave.”

The detective stepped back, hand ups and eyebrows raised (which was quite an achievement  considering he had no such thing).

“Woah there kid, was just trying to help. You seemed like you could use it.” He glanced at Deacons bandaged leg.

“Aw what this? Nah, there's a hole in these pants, lets in the wind like you wouldn't _believe_. I gotta keep 'em sealed up.” Deacon gave his best bullshitting grin, but the synth just stared back, exasperation lurking in his glowing eyes. Ignoring this, Deacon stood up, gun steady as he gritted his teeth against a burst of pain. “Well it was nice to meet you and all, but I got to get going after that little rest.” He tipped an imaginary hat and half turned to walk away, gun still at the ready.

 

Of course, Deacon’s luck decided to kick in then, and two steps later his leg crumpled - sending him crashing to the ground. He groaned and resisted the urge to thump his head into the pavement. It already hurt from two faceplants. There was a trickle of warmth over his ankle, and _of course_ it had taken this opportunity to bleed again. Just his luck. This time when two hands - one skeletal metal, the other a synthetic grey - reached out, he tensed but didn't react. It wasn't like had a choice, his gun was stuck under him from the fall (and wow, that hadn't done nice things to his wrist). The detective gently rolled him over and then - and then picked him up in a _princess carry?_ He squirmed uncomfortably, but the synth just turned and started walking.

“Oi oi mister, no offense to you, but I don't go off alone with strange men till the third date.” Somehow, despite not being able to see his face, deacon got the impression the synth had just rolled his eyes.

“I'm taking you to Diamond city, kid. You're going to bleed out if I leave you alone.” The detectives tone was dry, and Deacon felt vaguely offended.

“Goodneighbor is closer, can't we go there? You look like you'd fit in better there…” He said, poking at the tattered skin on the detective's hand. All he got was a readjusting of grip.

“Brat. Diamond city has a better doctor; Amari is good with brains but less so with everything else.” When Deacon didn't reply the detective - Valentine - glanced down and saw the scowl on his face. “Or maybe I should drop you off with her, might do you some good.”

“Rude! I'm perfectly sane. Only seen a few flying brahmin.”

“Uh-huh.”

The silence stretched out after that, the rhythmic footsteps of valentine and the strange whirring from inside the synths chest all that interrupted it. Well, and the occasional gunshots. But those were distant and hey, it’s post-apocalyptia; shooting things is practically a national pastime. Deacon really shouldn't have let that lull him to sleep; He was being carried by a possible institute spy to a city the railroad pointedly avoided. He blamed it on the blood loss.

 

When Deacon woke up a day later to an unfamiliar ceiling, he felt rather proud of himself for not freaking out. Glancing around told him this wasn't the institute - it was a lot more “medical facility” and not “well built but still definitely wastelander”. He was alone in the room, and beyond a spare suit hanging in the corner (Valentine, his mind noted) it was empty. He kind of wanted a weapon. Kind of _really really_ wanted a weapon. He'd feel a lot safer if he was able to shoot plasma should the synth be hostile. Or to shoot himself and save him the embarrassment, he thought, glancing down and finding a distinct lack of clothing. He didn't even have his sunglasses, and the lack of that somehow left him even less comfortable. He really had been wearing them too much if he was so dependent upon them, he thought with a grimace. Possibly hostile place, no gun, no pants, no glasses. High Rise would laugh his ass off if he knew. Just imagining it made him shudder, he'd never live it down. He moved to leave the bed, but froze. Why wasn't there any pain? Pushing off the sheets he stared in wonderment at the smooth skin revealed, only a faint line where the would had been. Not only a proper doctor, but at least two stimpaks spent on it. Jesus. And also oh hell, because now he owed both the doctor and the detective a _lot_ of money. An amount his conscience wouldn't let him ignore. Resigned, he rolled the sheet around himself and stood up. Hopefully he could get his stuff back before anything went wrong.

 

Walking down stairs in a toga, Deacon found a woman rather than the detective. The two froze, the ladies face reddening as her gaze lowered. Deacon felt heat rising on his own cheeks. Maybe he should've put on that suit…

“Er.” He coughed awkwardly, “Do you know where my things are?”

“Yes!” The woman yelped, eyes snapping up to his face. He really wished the sheet was less sheer.

“Could I, um, have it then?” He asked. Even his ears felt hot.

“Oh gosh I'm sorry, they’re drying outside. I'll just go and get them then.” Her face was practically crimson as she hurried off.

Curious, and feeling slightly less vulnerable as the door closed behind the woman, he looked around. Desks and filing cabinets took up most of the space, papers spread out upon them that he itched to look through. Probably cases, he thought, this seemed to be the detective’s place. Inching down the stairs, he peered at the nearest one. Some kind of disappearance? Neat handwriting summarized the client’s complaint, and a list of possible places and people was laid out below it. They were grouped oddly, maybe a sorting useful to the detective, but not one Deacon could make heads or tails of. He was just shifting the pile to look at others when hinges creaked in warning, giving him a barely enough time to drop them before the woman came in. His clothes (and gun, he was relieved to note) were piled in her arms, and behind her was the detective.

 

The woman, introducing herself as Ellie, hand him his neatly folded jeans and armour, but the shirt she gave him was different.

“Yours wasn’t salvageable, I'm afraid.” She sounded  genuinely apologetic about it, and he could only smile awkwardly in response. One more person for his debt list. He tried to keep a cheerful face, but even as he was given his gear back the enormity of how much he owed these people was sinking in. The way the detective was looking at him didn't help. Maybe he had more scars than the average wastelander, but did the detective have to look so intent? It felt scarily like the synth was seeing into his soul. When he made a hasty retreat up the stairs he hoped it was passed off as embarrassment, not fear.

 

Clothes on, his gun in its holster and glasses over his eyes, Deacon felt a bit better about the situation. Adjusting his face into a grateful smile, he made his way down the stairs. Ellie appeared absent, but Valentine looked up as he reached the bottom. His gaze was less obviously inhuman now that they were out of the shadowed streets, but it was just as razor sharp, leaving Deacon glad for his sunglasses. Their shaded lenses lowered its potency from omniscient soul-searching to merely x-ray. Maybe he wouldn't give up the habit of wearing them just yet.

“Coffee?” Asked the drawling voice, and Deacon was startled out of his musings.

“What? Oh. To drink. Yes please.”

The synth nodded, and Deacon watched warily as it was made. He didn't see anything suspicious slipped in, so as he was handed the cup and gestured to sit he took a cautious sip. Nothing tasted off, so it probably wouldn't kill him. Better be safe than sorry, though, so he put it down when Valentine sat across from him. He sort of longed to trust it enough to drink; it was really hard to refrain from twitching as the detective examined him in silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so there are only 13 fics in the Nick/Deacon tag, I decided to help fill it out. Non beta'd in any way, so if there's any major mistakes point them out please? This is also my first multi-chapter fic, I'll try for bi-weekly updates at least but school starts soon.
> 
> So this is before the Sole Survivor wakes up, but they will appear later. I was also largely inspired to write this because of these two works: [Cloaks, Daggers, and Cigarette Smoke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5306738/chapters/12252113) and [Insert Something Shakespearean Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6500950/chapters/14881489) . Please go check those out they are amazing and I love them so much. 
> 
> I can be found [on tumblr as Kittenlzlz](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kittenlzlz), but warning, its a very eccentric collection of things I post, complete with bad tagging.


	2. Just Your Average Joe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brain cells shouldn't be capable of mutiny dammit.

Okay, it had been at least five minutes and the detective was still saying nothing. If this was an interrogation technique it was working damn well, Deacon had never been able to resist filling a silence.  
“...Lovely weather this morning, don't you think?” He asked brightly. His smile had slipped some, but he pulled it back onto his face. “Clear skies, only a middling haze of radiation, seems a bit of a waste to spend it sitting inside.” That got him a reaction, a movement of grey skin that on anyone else would’ve been an eyebrow twitch.  
“I was merely hoping you could answer some of my questions.”  
“My bad, all this silence was giving me the impression that you didn't want to talk.” Desdemona had always told Deacon he shouldn't take enjoyment in riling people up, but the detectives minute twitches were really satisfying. The synth sighed as Deacon’s smile grew to only a few watts short of blinding.  
“Look, kid, being cagey helps no one. If there’s a new raider camp security needs to know.”  
Tugging on the ol’ heartstrings to try and get him to talk, Deacon thought. Scavvers or traders would’ve already reported a new group setting up. And people wondered why he didn't believe in the word ‘honesty’.  
“Nah, nothing that dramatic. I just made the mistake of signing up with a newbie trader. 'Going through the commons is quicker’ he said, 'it’ll be fun!’ he said.” Deacon sighed dramatically, “People these days just don't respect their employees.” He shook his head, tsking.  
“I'm sure you were model worker.” The synth said drily, before pausing and assessing Deacon. “Supermutants can probably account for that hole in your leg, but not your lack of goods, or reaction to me. Mind giving me the whole story?”  
Oh. well, damn. The devil was always in the details, and most people ignored them.  
“What is this, an inquisition?” He complained, wrinkling his nose. “Since you insist, it was actually raiders that got to us. Would've killed me too but my ex was the chief.” He leaned forward, staring seriously right into sharp yellow eyes. “NEVER dump a girl with a fondness for miniguns. And especially don't add to it by refusing to be her bed slave.” Satisfied, Deacon sat back. “She really should've expected it though. God, the way those sheets smelled.”  
The detective's face was pinched, a sort of horrified bemusement on it that meant he’d accidentally pictured it.  
“And your… fit?” The synth finally asked in a half strangled voice. Deacon waved a hand dismissively.  
“Can’t blame me for being relieved when I saw your metal mug rather than a large deadly piece of overcompensation.” He beamed at the detective, and it looked like the pained expression might become permanent.  
“... Right.” Valentine said, clearing his throat. Deacon took it as his cue to leave, and stood.  
“Well I really appreciate it and all, but I've got to get back to bunker hill. Make sure the next few traders carry some extra caps for you and the lady.” With a wink, and possibly a little more smirk than he should've, he started out the door. It was easy to ignore the delayed “hey-,” Swift steps took him from the side street, letting him lose himself in the crowd of midday market goers.

No one questioned when Deacon came back several days later than he should've. The older Railroad members - those few survivors that remembered him as “John” - knew he could take care of himself. New recruits often eyed him with speculation, but generally followed their lead and left him be. As he leaned against the wall, he wondered briefly if anyone would’ve come to find him. Dez and Carrington would've mourned,but then they’d pack up and move on. They'd miss him, or at least his information, but the Railroad couldn't afford to do more than that for an agent. He fingered his new shirt thoughtfully. Yeah, he definitely owed the detective agency a lot. Then he grimaced; this was a possible institute plant he was thinking of. Even if he kept it separate from his work, just having a recognisable face would be dangerous. Sighing, he put the thought out of his mind. Anonymous repayment would have to do, because the Railroad came first.

Three weeks, two unsigned bags of caps and a face change later, Deacon found himself dithering outside the agency's door. Not obviously dithering - he has some pride damn it - but casually standing within sight of it. Absent fingers tugged his cap further over his eyes, hiding himself a little more from the world. He kind of wished it hid him from his thoughts too. He had no idea what he was doing here. Maybe Carrington’s many talks about him “pushing away others” and “not making real friends” being “unhealthy behaviour” had a point. But he talked to people. A lot. It was literally his job to chat with as many people as possible, he shouldn't feel this… excited about a social interaction. The synth wouldn't even recognise him for god's sake. Of course, the same traitorous part of his mind that led him here happily reminded him that it hardly mattered to the do-good detective if he was a stranger or not. He resisted the urge to strangle himself; brain cells shouldn't be capable of mutiny dammit.

Deacon had almost convinced himself to walk away when the woman - Ellie - turned down the road, obviously headed for the agency. Two full and heavy packages precariously piled in her arms made the decision for him, and before he knew it he was beside her catching one as it slipped. The creative set of curse words that had just begun to slip from her mouth stopped, and she stared at deacon.  
“Sorry ma’am,” he found himself saying, “But I can't leave a lady in trouble.” For a minute he was afraid Ellie was going to refuse (apparently his entire brain was in on the rebellion now), but her gaze then softened slightly.  
“You did save me quite some trouble. But if you try anything, I’ll scream. Quite a lot of security is sweet on me.” The saccharine smile that followed her words made Deacon grin.  
“Don't worry ma’am, I’m too captivated by your beauty.” Winking, he startled her into laughing, though she quickly covered it with a snort.  
“We’ll see if that attitude lasts past meeting Nick. And call me Ellie, not ma’am, Mr…?”  
“Joe. Just Joe ma’am.” He laughed at her grimace, and let her lead the way down the street.

Deacon enjoyed talking to Ellie. Valentine had been absent, out on a case according to his new friend, but he'd helped her organize the filing cabinets. The sweet rolls she repaid him with were divine, and he stayed longer than he meant to chatting over them. He also hadn't meant to promise to come back the next day - “To see Nick, he'll like you. Besides, if the case is giving him this much trouble I'm sure he'd pay for an extra gun.” - but in the end he’d surrendered and said yes. Dez wouldn't complain if he brought in a couple extra caps, and if he refilled the dead drop caches at night he could be back in time. He shouldn't have told Ellie he was a guard currently in between caravans. She assumed he had far more free time than was true. Fuck it though, he felt happier today than he had in a long time, maybe since before the institute raid. He’d run drops at night before, and this strange sense of peace was worth it.

Yawning, Deacon sat down heavily, propping his elbows on the edge of the noodle stand. His night was a relatively quiet one, but he was still exhausted. There’d been no particularly bad news (which was the closest most safehouses got to good news these days) and the worst he’d run into were some ferals. Which, ew, but not too much danger if you were quick on the uptake. Still, stumbling into parkview apartments at some ungodly time had gotten him only a bare few hours of sleep.  
“Nan-ni shimasho-ka?” He heard in front of him. Deacon smiled at the robot, nodding. A bowl of steaming noodles was shoved under his nose and he breathed in deep.  
“Takahashi, you are a beautiful beautiful robot, and never let anyone tell you otherwise.”  
“Nan-ni shimasho-ka.”  
“Yes, yes. You are definitely the best chef in the commonwealth.” Deacon smiled at the protectron before digging into his noodles like a starving man. Takahashi stood there, clicking its pincers for a moment, but then seemed to decide deacon was done and shuffled away to another customer.  
“If you flirt with dames half as enthusiastically as you do with robots it's no wonder Ellie took a shine to you.” An amused voice said from behind him. Deacon choked on his mouthful of noodles and had to lean over coughing. That smooth drawl? Definitely Valentine. He kept a hand to his mouth, breathing hard for longer than he needed too as his mind raced. Joe didn't know valentine. Heard of him, sure, but no one talked about the detective like he was a synth. Right. Act surprised, maybe a little scared. Or, that was what he meant to do. Instead, as he turned to look at the man, what came out of his mouth was:  
“Well, it's hard not to be enthusiastic when there are 'bots like you.” instantly he slapped a hand over his traitorous lips, but it was too late. Both Valentine and the closest customers were staring at him. His face burned. “Anyone feel like helping a guy out by shooting him in the mouth?” He asked weakly, hands sliding up to cover his eyes. The laughter that came next meant no one was denouncing him as a synth at least. Peering out between his fingers, he saw Valentine had a hand slapped to his face, shoulders shaking with muffled mirth. Deacon wanted to sigh, but was heartily whacked on the back, a laugh booming out.  
“Sounds like someone needs think a little more before you speak, ay?” Deacon turned to see one of the Brobov brothers grinning down at him.  
“Thanks,” Deacon replied sourly. “It's not like I hadn't noticed.”  
“Don't be bitter, just for this you get a discount on drinks next time you come by the dugout. Just ask for Vadim!” With another cheerful clap on the back, the big man strode away. Others too began to drift off, laughing among each other still. “Joe” would be the talk of the city within hours. Valentine straightened himself up, but the synth’s shoulders still occasionally shook and he couldn't look Deacon in the eye.  
“If it helps, Ellie will get a kick out of this.” He said, voice unsteady with suppressed laughter. Deacon groaned.  
“I can't exactly impress her if she's too busy making fun of me.” He said wryly. “And two timing isn't exactly a great second impression.”  
Valentine’s lips twitched. “I think she likes you enough already. You're out of luck if you're sweet on her though, she's already got a valentine.”  
Deacon's head snapped up.  
“Wait, you two..?” He couldn't help it, his eyes were wide with horror. Oh god what if he'd intruded on their relationship- chuckles cut him off.  
“I meant more the metaphorical kind, but I'm glad you care enough not to wish an old synth upon her.” Valentine's lips were twitching.  
“Oh shut up, you're far more respectable than most of us. I was more worried about making her jealous.”  
“Yet another compliment, you do seem intent on breaking her heart.” The detective drawled, “Shouldn't you be more scared of the big bad synth?”  
“Clearly your memory is failing you, her glares could take down deathclaws. Besides, she's told me all about what a big softy you are.” Deacon flashed a quick little grin to prove his point and held out his hand. “I’m Joe, thanks for not murdering me.”  
“Yeah, yeah. I'm Nick Valentine, as you already know. Heard you’d appreciate some extra caps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I minorly edited the first chapter, so sorry if you got that as a notification its was just tiny changes. Anyway, I hope no one minded the excessive dialogue in this chapter, especially sine my formatting ended up different this time somehow? I promise there are actual events in the next one... Also just to note, this is a year or so before Sole awakens. Deacon is around 34ish because backstory things.
> 
> Again, if there are any mistakes please point them out!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who kudos'd and commented, you were what motivated me to get this out so fast!


	3. The Many Kinds of Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staring into the abyss is bad for you Deacon, don't do it.

Deacon popped a mentat in his mouth, making a face at Valentines scowl.

“You seem determined to get us killed, I think I'm allowed a few luxuries.”

“Then pick ones that don't get you stuck on them, kid.”

“What, like cigarettes? I’ve heard they're just fantastic for your lungs.”

Valentine rolled his eyes.

“Mine are rubber and easy to clean. Not exactly hurting me.”

“Okay, that's just cheating. Clearly you should give them to us more deserving wastelanders. Beats dying to supermutants, right?”

Valentine snorted, lighting up a cigarette and taking a long drag. Deacon scowled, and his fingers itched for his own. He hated mentats beyond how they kept him awake, and the one vice he allowed himself was the occasional soothing drags of nicotine. It was the perfect time for one too, halfway up a skyscraper in an old storage room, hidden from the raiders roaming the place. He let out a deep sigh.

“Do we  _ really _ have to find proof Nelson's smuggling drugs? Can't we just lie to Latimer senior?”

“Ah yes. Joe, the newly arrived completely honest mercenary, such a trustworthy guy.”

“Hey! I'd be brilliant at it. 'Oh sir Latimer, your son is truly dutiful. All those times he's suspiciously left the city and met with shady people are actually lies!’”

“Uh huh.” Valentine snorted. “Flutter your eyelashes, it’ll be more believable.” The synth lifted his cigarette to his lips, bared metal brushing synthetic skin as he took a deep breath. Deacon watched, entranced, as the smoke was borne out by artificial breath, gentle grey curls of it drifting upwards before finally fading.

“The man already knows his son fell in with a bad lot. But he's a father; it's so much harder to accept that when you've raised someone from birth.” A long sigh escaped the synth, and his eyes were upwards, full of some intense emotion. Deacon let the silence lie, considering his words. Deacon couldn't really relate to such a thing. Loyalty he understood, it was give and take and duty, easy in its practicality. Love was well, always seemed a bit too one-sided to him. There was probably something wrong with that, but hell, the ‘wealth was full of messed up people. Didn't really matter much if he thought a little wrong. The lying for example; sure, people hated they couldn't get a straight answer out of him, but it’d saved him far more times than he could count. He glanced up from the hands he'd been twisting together as he thought. Valentine was still staring at nothing, the odd, sad look still there. 

“Well,” Deacon announced, grabbing valentines attention. “Mind telling me more about this father thing? Supermutants are a bit different about it you see. They raise all us children communally, then pick the angriest of the lot to make all big and green.” He chewed his lip exaggeratedly, tapping his chin in mock-thought. “I’ve never seen human siblings eat each other, so I've been a bit confused.”

The startled laugh he pulled out of Valentine was rewarding, and he was glad to see the melancholy retreating. He grinned and Valentine scowled at him.

“Give me a warning next time, kid. A second later and I'd have inhaled the entire cigarette.”

“Damn, my timing was off. Having to clean your lungs would mean less time fighting drug-fuelled ruffians.”

Valentine rolled his eyes, metal hand pinching out the cigarette before he stood up.

“We’re nearly at goodneighbor. Once we're there I just have to talk to a triggerman that owes me a favour, and we’re done.”

“Fine Fine. Only a bunch of raiders, gunners, and the occasional supermutant camp to go.” 

 

“Oh, sweetheart, you shouldn't have. You know how much I love near death experiences, and you've found me two!” Deacon's words were whispered, but Valentine easily caught them, turning and glaring.

“Be quiet!” He hissed, as if he wasn't the one that had insisted they go this way. Also, Deacon wasn't the one with glow-in-the-dark eyes and reflective metal hands. He grumbled under his breath as they crept past bags of gore, trying to distract himself from the putrid stench and the senseless violence of them. Death would never be a pleasant thing, but to be ripped and twisted apart,  _ for no reason _ , had a horror impossible to shake. Deacon grimaced as they neared a lit barrel fire. They both slowed down, edging as close to the wall and it's darkness as possible. Ice raced through his veins when the building across the street opened, and the two skirmishers came out, arguing loudly. 

“- MY MEATBAG IS FRESHER, NO NASTY OLD RAIDERS IN MINE.”

“YOU JUST MAD MINE IS BIGGER. I GOT ALL THEM NICE SQUISHY BITS TOO -”

Deacon really, really wished he could shut his ears off. The volume of the grating voices made his head pound with every word, and their contents made him both nauseous and so angry his hands trembled with it. Valentine had reached the edge of the light, and was gesturing for Deacon to move. Taking a deep, shaking breath, he ignored the detectives gestures. Muscles tight with a reckless energy, he withdrew his plasma pistol from its holster. 

“Valentine,” he whispered, knowing the synth would catch it, “I’m about to do something very stupid. You may want to run.” Slowly, carefully, Deacon loaded a fresh cell, ignoring the synths increasingly frantic hand signals.

Breath in. Breath out. Fire. 

The closest monster screamed in fury and pain as the blistering energy bolt struck it's eye. A seconds pause and another bolt struck it, this one splattering across its chin, some into its mouth as it howled.

“HUUURT! MY EYES!” Its partner swung around peering into the night, firing randomly with its shotgun.

“PUNY HUMAN. COME OUT AND FIGHT!.”

Before Deacon could fire off another shot in response to that, a heavy bullet hit the uninjured ones shoulder. Less effective than plasma, but the thing still staggered. Deacon grinned,  wild and painful - a radstorm's worth of fury peeking through a human façade. His next two shots hit dead on, crippling the blind ones arm.

“FOUND YOU!” The other roared out, shotgun now pointing directly at Deacon. He rolled out of the way just as a blast fired, coming up on his knees to fire off two more shots. Valentine, still hidden in the shadows, added to his cluster of headshots on the wounded one. With a sickening noise it's head half blew out, a meaty thump following as the body fell.

“BROTHER!” The remaining mutants eyes went wild, and it began to run at deacon, shotgun forgotten in favour of revenge.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Fire.  _ Dive the fuck out of the angry supermutants way _ .

Deacon twisted as he landed, swearing as the rough pavement tore his shirt. Ignoring the stinging fire of his scraped back, he got a shot off before the monster began charging again. It went wild, hitting a leg rather than torso. He could work with that though, and waited white-knuckled as it got closer and closer. In a quick movement he ducked beneath the meaty arm it swung at him, rolling through its legs before it could react. He kicked out at the injured knee as he went, stopping his roll just behind the skirmisher. Gun barely inches away from its skin, he fired point blank at the same leg, plasma splattering everywhere. One more kick propelled him further away as the thing slumped forward. Two bullets from Valentine rang out, and Deacon managed to get a knee under himself in time for a final neckshot. The monster fell still, dead. That feral, violent fury inside him wanted to laugh - they'd gotten revenge for part of the pain supermutants brought to the commonwealth. He didn't though, just bared his teeth in another mockery of a smile, ignoring the pain of plasma chewing into his skin and all the other scrapes and aches.

“You know,” came Valentine’s voice, calm and steady. “After seeing you face down a charging super mutant, I’m a lot more inclined to believe your story.” As the synth stepped more into the light, Deacon saw that his pistol was still held in an almost ready position. He sighed, holstering his own.

“You don't need to treat me like a half tamed radscorpion, detective. I’m sane enough to tell friend from foe.” The synths wariness pulled the warmth of the fight from Deacon, his voice roughening as he futilely tried to wipe blood off with his sleeve. 

“Alright, just figured I should check in.” Valentine said, gun slipping back inside his coat and walking forward. His eyes scanned Deacon carefully, and tightened slightly as they saw where plasma had splashed across his collarbone.

“Mind if I take a look at that?” He asked gesturing. Deacon shook his head.

“Not right now, we should try and get somewhere safe first.” The detective nodded, and the two fell into an easy pace as they made their way through Boston's dead streets.

 

Deacon knew that he should try and get the detective to find his contact so they could get going. He couldn't find the motivation too. Every step felt like he was dragging sixty pounds of lead, and his brain was a fog of exhaustion. Even Valentine beside him seemed a little creaky. The first guard they saw wordlessly pointed to the hotel Rexford, a move Deacon was both relieved and offended by. He didn't have  _ that _ much blood on him. Ten caps and a couple of stairways later he found himself grimacing as he peeled his shirt away from his back. Valentine eyed the scrapes there, and then the plasma-burn mess of skin on his collarbone.

“Right.” He said, taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves. “This way.”

Deacon ended up perched on the edge of a tub, the cracked ceramic and half tiled floor the closest thing Rexford had to a bathroom. He wasn't relaxed, per say, but Valentine had helped him when it would've been more sensible to run and now was quickly and efficiently treating his injuries. He at least wasn't an immediate threat. Deacon hummed as cool, purified water washed out the plasma wounds, but opened his eyes as he heard a stim being prepared.

“Oi. You shouldn't use that on something as little as this. It's just a flesh wound.” The small sounds from behind him stilled, and then the detective chuckled.

“You say that like I'd ever use this, and I have plenty of spares anyway.” Before Deacon could twist around and tell him that still wasn't a reason to waste one on him, there was a sharp pain in his shoulder. He bit down on his lip till the needle pulled out, the odd itchiness of healing flesh already spreading across his back and chest.

“Bastard,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “I was fine!”

“Uh huh. And it would've taken you weeks to heal.”

Deacon opened his mouth to protest, but nick cut him off. “Quit complaining, kid. You did a good - if idiotic - thing tonight, you're allowed a little relief.” Valentine’s hand was gently resting on deacons shoulder, and even though deacon couldn't see his face he knew the synths expression would be the same exasperated concern he'd seen in that alleyway. Deacon sighed and let his shoulders relax. 

“Fine.” He huffed. “But don't complain if I can't sleep with all the itching.”

Valentine chuckled, hand moving from his shoulder to help him stand up from the tub. They walked slowly back to their room in a comfortable silence, and Deacon found himself reveling it. It was the same feeling he shared with High Rise, except then it was always contaminated by a grim undercurrent. While cautious, his and valentine’s companionship had a comforting buffer of anonymity, a separation from duty and death. This was someone who saved strangers for no reason, whose very job was helping people, and it was Deacon’s  _ choice _ to continue contact with him. What a strange thing, he thought as he pulled off his boots and slipped into bed. Sleep was slowly invading his mind, and even as he tucked his pistol beneath the shitty excuse for a pillow his eyes were closing. The last thing he was properly aware of, before he slipped into sleep with his hand tight around his gun, was the soft shifting sounds of valentine settling into a chair for the night.

 

Deacons eyes snapped open, pistol raised before he even awoke. Blinking blearily, it took him a moment to fully register the situation. Valentine was half out of a chair across from him, yellow eyes widened. Hazy grey light filtered in from the boarded up window, it's half darkness making the glow of his eyes stand out in dramatic contrast. Deacon lowered his hand.

“Eheh… Sorry?” His voice was rough from sleep, and valentine's posture eased, standing up fully.

“You’re scary as hell, kid. I'd barely even moved.”

“Always been a light sleeper.” Deacon yawned, shrugging as he pushed himself up. “So. Morning?”

“Yes, for a given definition of it.” The detective replied, a quirk to his lips. “After last night I didn't expect you to wake up before the sun did.”

“Not my fault your creaky joints could wake the dead.” Deacon said, scrubbing sleep from his eyes and reaching for his boots. “Seriously, do I need to ask KLEO for gun oil?”

“My joints are fine, thanks.” Valentine said dryly. “You, however, need to do something about that paranoia.”

“It’s not paranoia if everything actually is out to get you.”

“...Point.” Valentine said, after a moment's consideration. Deacon beamed, ignoring the detectives snort as he picked up his pack.

“Where to, boss?”

 

“I thought-” Deacon panted, rolling behind a low wall to avoid a spray of bullets, “- you said there’d be one guy.” He tried to peek over his cover, but the continuous ‘rat-tat-tat’ of the submachine guns made him quickly duck down again. He flinched as cement dust rained down on him, bullets chipping into the old mortar. Across the street from him, Valentine glared from behind an overturned car but didn't bother to reply. Deacon made a face anyway. Fuck the triggermen. Valentine's informant had told the synth to come alone, which was suspicious but not terribly unexpected of a nervous tattler. Deacon had followed anyway though, which turned out to be great when six other mobsters popped out of the woodwork. Honestly, he hated automatics; they were  _ always _ wielded by jackasses. Keeping an ear on the the sounds of bullets and pain - Valentine was a good shot - his fingers struggled with the pockets on his harness, finally popping a button and pulling out a grenade. Not his normal style, but assholes with automatics required a special touch. As Valentine popped up, getting a shot off and drawing the triggermen’s fire, Deacon pulled the pin out with his teeth. A quick glance over the wall confirmed that the thugs were clustered together, so he chucked it at them, instantly dropping down and covering his ears. The deafening boom and it's following concussive blast made him grit his teeth, screams confirming his accuracy. When Deacon judged it safe to leave his wall, he was confronted with the bloody wreckage the frag bomb had caused. Most of the triggermen were already silent in death, but two were still twitching, pitiful groaning as they bled out from twisted limbs. His lips twisted, he shot both. Deacon wasn't one for unnecessary violence, preferring execution style headshots. He took a certain pride in quiet, clean kills. Eyeing the coated figure beside him, still and stern, Deacon figured Valentine felt the same way. This was the wasteland though, guilt wasn't something you could afford, so Deacon pushed his thoughts away with practiced ease.

“Soooo…” He said, holstering his gun. “That was fun. Really great conversationalists, the triggermen.” Valentine looked at him askance and Deacon stroked a non existent beard in thought. “Didn’t have tea though. Once met this deathclaw who made its own, we had a really great night bonding over it.”

“I’m sure.” Valentine said dryly.

“No really, I've still got the scars - he was a little over enthusiastic.” Deacon winked at the detective, who just stared back with metaphorically raised eyebrows.

“Sounds like you want a repeat performance, should we go wander the glowing sea?”

“Ah, no thanks. I prefer a little less radiation in my partners.” Deacon said, wincing. Valentine snorted, but left it at that as he began to rifle through the pockets of the nearest corpse. Deacon joined him, grimacing as blood soon covered his hands. Ah, the time honoured tradition of looting.

 

Of course, because the world loves to torture Deacon, it was only on the last corpse they found a handwritten receipt. It was also covered in various terrifying body fluids, because of course it was on a blown apart torso. Even Valentine, who’d been searching doggedly through Deacon’s endless stream of complaints, made a face as he gingerly took it.

“This’ll do.” He announced after a few seconds of quiet study. Deacon let out a relieved breath.

“Thank God, I am  _ done _ with searching through body fluids. How the hell do they carry so much in suits anyway?”

“You manage in it in jeans and a t-shirt.” Valentine pointed out. “Anyway, we shouldn’t be sitting here chit-chatting. If we’re quick we can make it to diamond city before within a day.”

“What, not going to pay for another luxurious stay at the 'rex?”

“You and I have different definitions of luxury, kid. Now hurry up.”

Deacon grumbled, but he sped up to catch the detective, shoving some last few caps into his pockets as he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I've had this chapter done for a while but just haven't finished editing and posting it oops. Was also discouraged when I reread some fics and went "oh god my writing is so much clunkier than this" but I think I did okay on this?
> 
> Some notes on my portrayal of Deacon: So while I'm not sure if the last backstory he tells you is true or not, I think there are definitely elements of truth in it - that he did something he sees as unforgivable and the guilt/whatever has warped his view of himself. Also I like the idea that for all his sneaking and joking, there is very much a lot of rage inside of him, the whole seeing red and being unable to ignore injustices.  
> (also I find getting Deacon to idolize me was ridiculous like, I got it right after picking a NOVICE lock. I'm glad you enjoy my deft fingers deacon, but wow, low standards much?)


End file.
